The job sounded perfect: bartending a gay sex party in a private loft in Tribeca. If I had to be stuck in New York for New Year’s Eve – a very depressing thought after having spent four New Year’s Eves in Cape Town – then I might as well work, earn some money, and just maybe have some fun.

There was only one catch: I had to work naked.

The friend who told me about the job – and who had incidentally declined because of the nude factor – said the host needed an answer that evening. It was December 27th.

I went to the gym before I gave a final answer.

I thought about the ramifications of working in the buff. What if I see someone I know? Or some hottie I’ve seen around but never met. I work out, jog and ride my bike everywhere, but would my body pass muster? At 38 I’m hardly ready to be put out to pasture, but also I’m no spring chicken (or is that spring cock?). And what about my … twig and berries? Being nervous while busy working is not conducive to sexy, distended genitalia.

Then I recalled the few sex parties I’d attended when I first moved to New York in 1993 before Giuliani’s Disneylandization of New York closed down most everything seedy. Those parties were very dark and most of the men were naked. That would be a good thing for my modesty: party goers would hardly be able to see my birthday suit. It would, however, also be a bad thing. How would I be tipped if the customers weren’t wearing any clothes and their wallets were in the coat check?

“Tell that guy I’ll do it,” I notified my friend when I got back home. Damn the torpedoes and go for it! I told myself. It’ll be a priceless New York experience! I told myself. It’ll be fun! I told myself.

•••

I was in high spirits when I arrived at the loft at 9:10 PM. I’d worked out each of the previous five days and that evening my beard and hair looked OK. On my bike, while passing downtown Manhattanites walking the streets in their New Year’s Eve finery, I relished the fact that I was going to a place where clothes would be dispensed with.

I rang a buzzer that said “HQ.” A guy with messy, russet-colored hair came down the stairs as I opened the door.

“You Ken?” asked this guy who was wearing a baggy T-shirt and looked to be about 40. I nodded my head looking up the steps at him. “You’re late. You know what happens to employees when they’re late, don’t you?” He proceeded to stick his middle finger in his mouth then pull it out and act like he was thrusting it as he grabbed my ass. I apologized, laughed and followed him upstairs. The guy turned out to be Daniel, the organizer.

I jumped in to help Jeremy, the other bartender, set up the bar on two glass-topped tables. At six feet with dark hair and intellectual rectangular glasses he was a looker.

“So what’s your day job,” I asked.

“I just got my PhD from Oxford in International Relations,” he said arranging the mish-mash of vodka, gin and whiskey bottles. “I’m trying to get a professor position at a university in England or here.”

Thane, the barback, turned out to be an Afrikaner from Welkom, South Africa, who works at a Williamsburg advertising agency. I later found out that Daniel, the organizer, had lived in Berlin for five years as an operatic singer.

So much for preconceived notions that people who work in the sex industry are seamy.

So far, so good. I had lived in Cape Town and Germany and I myself have an M.A. in International Relations so I clicked with all these guys. I was batting 1000. But on every parade it seems some rain must fall. The name of this downpour was Aaron.

“You two have to wear these,” Aaron proclaimed dangling in front of us two gold lamé thongs with little bow ties and buttons. He then turned on his heel and flitted off to do something with the stereo system.

“I don’t even know how to put this on,” Jeremy said, examining the odd-shaped, golden contraption. “I’d rather go naked.”

“Me too,” I concurred. “These are just plain embarrassing; and God knows where those things have been?” Getting crabs was not on my New Year’s Eve agenda. We placed our gold lamé lingerie in a corner behind the bottled water and politely forgot about them.

Then Aaron returned.

“Here you guys, we want you to wear these too! They’re so festive!” Aaron gushed. He proceeded to hand us two plastic top hats: one black, the other gold with glitter on it. Jeremy and I mutually decided that under no circumstance were we going to wear those tacky top hats. Since we needed bigger tip jars Jeremy and I placed our top hats upside down on the tables and put a dollar bill on each rim.

Aaron rushed by us, stopped, then darted toward our makeshift bar. “You’re supposed to wear these, not use them for tips!” he said appalled, snatching up his plastic top hats.

“God, Aaron’s really into those hats!” Jeremy said out of the side of his mouth after Aaron disappeared.

“I know,” I said, shaking my head. “So are these guys going to have sex in front of us?” I asked. Jeremy had done a few of these parties before and even danced sometimes so he knew the m.o..

“If there’s full-on fucking, it’s back there,” he replied, pointing to an area that was covered by a curtain of dangling silver shreds. (Surely Aaron’s decorating idea).

“I hope they cleaned their asses,” I said.

“No shit.”

The doors opened at 10 PM.

Since the loft space was chilly, Jeremy and I were initially allowed to wear our clothes.

Things began smoothly. We made pitchers of mixed vodka drinks, were fully stocked and customer flow was good.

At 11:00 Daniel told us to strip to our underwear. As I passed the coat check to undress I noticed that partygoers were handed white trash bags to check in their clothes if they so opted. Most men remained clothed. Good for tips. Bad for trying to blend in while naked.

I had on my sexiest pair of underwear – blue H&M square-cut shorts. I felt foxy, liberated even. As customers began to swarm the open bar, wanting to get drunk ASAP and get their money’s worth, it felt great just wearing underwear.

Midnight turned out to be a mere blip in the evening. Auld Lang Syne was played. Gogo boys poured champagne from atop their boxes around the loft space. And Jeremy and I did what two gay bartenders do in their underwear: gave the customers a deep-kiss-Happy-New-Year’s-Eve show then returned to slinging drinks. Shortly thereafter came the word.

“Daniel says lose the underwear,” Jeremy informed me.

Damn.

So far things had gone so well. We ended up not having to wear the gold lamé bowtie g-strings or the tacky plastic top hats, and the customers seemed satisfied with our drinks, but now I had to pay the ferryman.

Just like it’s better to jump in the cold ocean quickly rather than go slowly in stages, I pulled off my shorts, stuffed them in my bag and acted like everything was normal. Stare at the customer’s face and he won’t look down towards my crotch, I told myself.

I was relieved that Jeremy’s family jewels were smaller than mine. (I’m a firm believer in double standards: I don’t want anybody looking at my wiener but I love to study those of other men.) While Jeremy was at full bush, I had decided to mow beforehand. I also opted not to take Viagra lest I not be able to control my manhood. Jeremy though had no qualms about it and swallowed a pill just before we went full monty.

I strategically placed large juice jugs in front of me to conceal my privates but as things got more hectic that ploy was soon ruined. Luckily, for customer distraction, the eight well-endowed dick dancers were now gyrating their Viagra-stiffened poles all around the room. A customer could stuff some money down the sock of the dancer of his choice then suck his shaft.

The dick dancers really got the party started.

Customers ordered drinks in a very normal manner, hard-ons turned away from the table so they wouldn’t knock over any plastic cups. I was really enjoying this odd normalcy. Only a few guys glanced at my polish sausage — or rather pig without a blanket — so I got more comfortable with being sans vêtements.

There was even one girl in attendance. She was was Asian and hanging out with some Indian dudes. I couldn’t tell if she was a lesbian or not, but I wondered how it must feel as a woman to pay $60 to see a bunch of homos running around with hard-ons.

As the evening proceeded I became more and more frustrated. I wanted to chat a little with the few cute customers in attendance or gaze at the sexy dick dancers, but it wasn’t possible.

The same trolls kept returning for refills. Then there were the customers with thick European accents who I struggled to understand over the loud music. And there were the ones who had to pause and think hard what they wanted. (Couldn’t you have thought about that while you were waiting in line you jackass?)

Some men were very generous. A few tipped us $20 bills. Jeremy diligently sifted those $20s and even a $50 bill out of our tip paint can and stuffed them in his bulging socks. If a customer asked us to break a $20 bill, he usually told us to just give him $15 back.

Other customers were cheapskates, waiting patiently for their 20 one-dollar bills in change then dropping a single GW in the paint can.

I tried not to think about being naked. I had felt much sexier wearing my underwear. I had hoped that Jeremy and I would’ve had more time to talk and drink but we were slammed most of the night. I had no time to even think of getting aroused, although I did have one customer who insisted I stir his drink with my love stick.

By 4 am the bulk of the cuties had left and the dick dancers had disappeared. Those who remained were either old, desperate, or unlucky. Many were all of the above.

I began talking to one of the dancers and it was just getting good when some old-timer stepped up to the bar and held out his cup for a refill. It was a guy who had already downed two dozen plastic cups of hard liquor. I got to the point where I began filling the glasses with pure liquor adding only a splash of mixer so they would pass out.

It was to no avail. These desperados were juggernauts.

After a pee break I did have an opportunity to check out the backroom. Guys were clumped in sweaty sucking, licking, groveling groups. It all looked pretty sloppy to me. I didn’t want to leave Jeremy tending bar alone so I made a beeline back to our work station.

By 5 am things were winding down. There were some guys sitting on the couches in the lounge trying to jerk off. They were too drunk to get hard and I thought a few would succumb to heart attacks as they struggled to bring their limp peters back to life.

The only way we finally got rid of the indestructible drunks was by breaking down the bar.

As I put my jeans and T-shirt on, my quads ached from squatting up and down a million times to scoop ice from under the table for drinks. I was sticky from spilled Coke, tonic, and liquor. Jeremy, Thane and I were beat, but when the tip money was counted out in the coat check room our pain turned out to be well worth it. In fact, despite the fact of working naked for most of the night and Aaron’s initial insistence that we dress like gay retards, this New Year’s Eve turned out to be one of the best I ever had.

Outside the streets were quiet. It was 6 am and raining. A lone taxi passed me as I biked to my apartment. My clothes were getting wet but it felt good to have them on again.

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